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Transmitted across thousands of miles, through mounds of copper wire and malformed rubber, sang the soft hum of a CRT television. Upon the screen, two wrestlers shot aimless insults at one another. Their giant muscles glistened with sweat; an audience cheered as the Crimson Crusader stood atop the arena, his elbow at the ready.

“You wanna insult my mom?" the grown man cried, luchador mask slightly off-center. “Then I'll make you cry for yours! Get ready… for I am…" A cheesy orchestral swell, and then: “The Crimson Crusader!"

Marshall remained unimpressed with this childish banter. Clad in a thin black skirt and violet top, sunken into the plush green couch, she heckled: “Boo! Weeaaaak. This fight sucks."

“Really?" Inari asked. He swept his long white hair to the side, took a sip from his cider, and said: “I think the drama is pretty good." He then tugged weakly on his white t-shirt, attempting to air out his blistering chest. “God, it's so hot in here. I hate the summer heat. The sun has set, and it's still hot."

Marshall, however, wasn't paying attention. She pointed a limp finger at the television, smacked her round pink lips, and said: “I can tell he's not into it. The feud isn't real."

“It's not meant to be real," Inari replied. He calmly took a sip of his cider. The sweet, cold liquid burned his throat. “It's just kayfabe, like a performance."

“Well, it's not a good performance," Marshall pouted. The audio-scrunched screech of a distant crowd crackled from their speakers. “I'm a much better actress. They should have me on there. Not these hooligans."

Inari, snickering, said: “Yeah, I'm sure you'd do great."

“I would, right?" Marshall bantered. “I could be a wrestler. A hot one."

“You have the body for it," Inari said. “You'd make a really cute opponent. Just get a pink luchador mask and you're set."

Hearing those words, a devilish smile rose to Marshall's face. She giggled, shifted in her seat, and teased: “If you and I were opponents in the ring, I'd totally pin you down." She then playfully gripped Inari's shoulder, shook him a little, and said: “Oh my god, we could have a rivalry going."

Inari smirked. “And I'm sure you'd win every time, right? Because you're so big and strong and smart."

“Right!" Marshall chirped. Obviously, she was tickled to have her ego so vigorously stroked. Her hand sneakily slipped itself upward, tracing along Inari's fat thigh, his abdomen, his flat, hairless chest. “I could practically hold you down with my pinky," she threatened. She then batted her thick eyelashes, that thick orange hair swaying along her back. “What do you think about that?"

Inari, with a cautious smile, said: “Even if I told you I'd win against you, you'd never believe me."

“Oh, whatever. You love my ego."

“Of course I do," Inari answered. “It's incredibly attractive." He then paused, quipped: “You're incredibly attractive."

As the television buzzed away, Marshall said: “Yeah?" Her face then slowly enclosed on Inari, her warm breath washing over his sweat-glistened face. “Tell me that again, then."

Inari rolled his eyes. He knew what game Marshall was playing – and yet, he fell for it anyway. His knee bounced anxiously as he met his lover's gaze, his breaths quickening. And he said: “Marshall, you are very attractive."

“Just attractive?" Marshall asked. Her eyes narrowed, incisors poking from beneath her lips. “What else, hm? Surely that can't be the only thing I'm good for." She then loomed over his lithe frame, her wide hips swaying happily, her hands planted upon the helpless boy's narrow shoulders. “Tell me. Tell me now."

The kitsune chuckled anxiously. With a quivering voice, he replied: “Well… you're smart, and you're confident, and you're sexy…" He gulped. “And you're a total bitch, which is obviously my type."

Marshall thus raised a hand to her chest, gasping dramatically at the insult. “A bitch?" she echoed. “I've never heard that one before." A knowing smile. “But, now that you're talking to me about it… tell me more."

Inari, however, struggled to find the words. Marshall had, in one swift move, managed to kick her leg over Inari's side, straddling him onto the couch, pushing him into the cushion. She stared down at him like a predator watching a meal, savoring his nervous smile.

“You're, uh… you're kinda mean," Inari whimpered. “And you're super domineering. And you never shut up, ever." He snorted, looked askance. “But I love you so much. Like, so so so much. More than anything."

Marshall grinned. “Good boy," she cooed, and ran her hand through his thick mop of fluffy white hair. “That's exactly what I wanted to hear." With a flourish, she then leaned forward, held Inari's face in her hands. “You're my property, after all. And I love hearing my property praise me."

That sentiment made Marshall quiver. Fearfully, he licked his lips and said: “H–hey Marshall. Just so you know, uh… we shouldn't take things too far tonight." He then looked away, sneakily catching a glance of the wrestling match. “It's just that, uh… you know, my kitsune form is kinda unpredictable right now. And it comes out when I get too emotional, so…"

“Too emotional?" Marshall asked. She then let loose a cocky guffaw, gripped Inari's shoulders tighter. “You mean, too horny."

Inari relented: “Too horny, I guess, yeah." Another nervous laugh. “What I'm saying is, I think we should stop here." He then stuttered: “N–not that I don't want to fuck you! It's just that, well, I lose control when I get like that. And I don't want you to be hurt, is all."

“Hurt?" Marshall echoed. She licked her lips at the thought, hummed. “That sounds nice, actually. What would you do to me?"

Predictably, Inari wasn't surprised at the girl's nonchalant response. With a furtive frown, he said: “No, seriously, Marshall. I can't control myself when I get that way. I might, um…." He paused. “I might bite you, or claw you, or whatever. Maybe even scar you. Badly."

“A scar?" Marshall teased. She then raised her top upward, exposing her wide, plump hips, and said: “Like… right here?"

“Marshall…"

“I think a bite mark would be amazing right here." She shot a sultry glance at him, teased: “A mark of my loyal beast, to hold near and dear forever. You'd like that, right?"

Admittedly, the idea did appeal to Marshall. And yet, he did not relent. In a rare moment of self-assertion, he said: “Marshall, don't push this. I'm serious."

“Yeah?" Marshall asked. And in a not-so-rare moment of foolhardiness, she asked: “And what if I do… this?"

Marshall thus raised herself to her knees, hovering her groin directly before Inari's face. She then watched with glee as Inari's nose was forced to huff her lust. Immediately, Inari's little face scrunched, filled with blush.

“M–Marshall!" he cried, and attempted to wriggle out from beneath her thick thighs; but alas, his efforts were futile. His eyes squeezed shut, his toes curling as he struggled to contain himself. “Be careful! I… mmmph…"

“What?" Marshall teased. With a mischievous grin, she then bucked her pelvis forward, shoving herself squarely against Inari's face. “Never smelled a girl's womanhood before, hm? Does it turn you on?"

Inari, of course, adored it. That acrid, musky, slightly sour scent drove him mad. Marshall then lifted up her skirt, showcasing a pair of thin pink panties – just barely, Inari could spy the indent of her cunt, the slight dampness of her lust wetting the fabric.

“I want you," Marshall cooed. “I want you so badly, honey. Why don't you just give in for me, hm? It'll make things easier for you."

Those words, however, melted into a milieu of softly spoken nothings within Inari's ears. Just as he'd warned, Inari could feel his kitsune side burgeoning from within his subconscious; all of the violent, dominant urges which hitherto remained buried threatened to burst onto the surface.

Inari moaned: “Marshall. Marshall, your fucking… hnggg… it's driving me crazy."

“Good," Marshall chirped. With a shit-eating grin, she added: “Just give into it already, you dumb fucking animal." She then shoved her pussy flatly against his face and said: “Get a good whiff, hm? And show me what an animal you can be." Another laugh. “Knowing you, you're just gonna be a stupid little lapdog. I can't wait."

Inari couldn't respond; his lips flailed along the soft fabric of her panties, a groan escaping his throat and tumbling against Marshall's flesh. He could feel the transformation beginning now, accelerating with every deep huff of Marshall's musk. His nails were beginning to extend, his eyes contorting; he could feel his incisors growing out from his gums, sharpening, poking from his lips. Even his vocal cords shifted – he could feel them contorting, lowering in pitch.

“Last chance," Inari warned. “Last chance to get off, Marshall."

But Marshall didn't give in. “Fuck your last chances," she spat. “Show me how fierce you can be, little kitsune. I can take it." She then caressed along his face, watching smugly as it contorted into a snarl. “Do you think I can't outsmart a dumb little animal?"

“Werefox," Inari grunted. “I'm called a werefox."

Marshall simply rolled her eyes. “I'll call you whatever I want," she blathered. “So come and show me what you're made of, hm? I hate to be kept waiting." She then mocked a yawn and added: “I don't even think you could overpower me, honestly. You're basically my pet."

Inari, of course, had long since hit his breaking point. In a blink, his irises had shifted shape, contracting into little black slits. A low growl hummed from his throat. His back hunched forward, like a rabid hyena over carrion, as he pushed Marshall's pelvis away from himself. Marshall giggled.

And, provoked by that tiny show of defiance, the boy's claws then wrapped around Marshall's plush thighs, sank themselves deeply into her skin. Deep down, Inari launched one last-ditch effort to reclaim his autonomy… and failed.

As those claws sank into Marshall's flesh, the girl's once-carefree smile momentarily faded. The beast drew blood from her legs in a slow trickle; it flowed sparingly along the edges of his newfound claws, wetting their sharp edges. A pained expression flashed across Marshall's freckled face; and, as if it were never there, she regained her composure.

Marshall spat: “Is that all you got?"

Such an outright challenge predictably set Inari's loins aflame. In horror, Marshall watched as Inari then lifted himself from the couch, still cradling Marshall against his chest. Floating there in the air, Marshall wriggled and writhed against the animal's grasp; but her efforts were futile.

“L–let me go!" she cried, and attempted to tug herself from Inari's arms. She then battered on his hard chest, slapped his face, as he sunk deeper within her flesh. That pain shot from her thighs downward, curling her toes, electrifying her spinal cord. Every instinct within her body pleaded for freedom. She didn't receive it.

In a panicked fervor, Marshall then raised her fist, planted a sucker punch across Inari's gnashing teeth. Therein laid a moment of tension as Marshall retracted her hand, stared at Inari with apprehension. His jaw was agape, his head wrenched to the side, wordless. More panic – had Marshall gone too far? Had she injured him?

Despite the pain in her thighs, despite her hovering three feet above the ground, and despite her aching ego, Marshall asked: “Inari, are you okay?"

Inari didn't say a word. Instead, he simply turned back toward Marshall, his maw curdling into a manic, bloodthirsty snarl. Adrenaline made Marshall quiver.

Without warning, the kitsune then slammed Marshall down onto the couch. Inari was on top now; he proceeded to mount the prone girl, taking advantage of her whilst the wind fled her lungs. Marshall desperately gasped for air, her arms flailing weakly as she attempted to right herself. Her attempts were duly thwarted.

Through gritted teeth, Inari failed to form words; that last sliver of conscious humanity struggled to make his tongue gnash correctly against his teeth. He wanted to echo one last apology, one last warning, anything – but it was too late. Instead, he breathed: “You're mine now."

“Yeah?" Marshall quipped. Even as she struggled to breathe, even as Inari's claws crept upward toward her shoulders, she wracked her brain for insults."A little pup like you wants to own me?" she spat. “How pathetic. You could barely hurt a fly."

Inari shot a glance downward at the girl's pockmarked thighs; with a lick of his chops, he then glanced back upward. He exhaled slowly.

And then, as if disproving Marshall, he raised his hand above his head, brought it down with a mighty grunt. And slash, slash – like a mace, it raked across Marshall's upturned face. It clashed first along the girl's lower jaw, then continued up past her lips, snapping her neck to the right. Her eyes widened, a small yelp emerged from her throat. And yet, that smug grin never quite fled her face; as she recovered from the impact, she spat a small glob of blood onto her split lip. And with chuckle, she teased: “Is that all you got?"

Surprised at the girl's resilience, Inari recoiled. That hesitation was quickly overcome by white-hot rage; buried deep within that primal instinct, there existed a flaming ego. He was the apex predator, meant to dominate. Any resistance must be crushed swiftly. Harshly.

Inari raised his paw higher, higher, and then brought it down. With an open palm and a clenched bicep, he slapped Marshall's upturned cheek once more. More smiling. More laughter. A deep sting permeated Marshall's face; down from her temple to her lower jaw, she panted in pain. “More," she begged. A wild look sparkled in her eyes. “More. Is that all you got, huh? Fucking pussy–"

Another blow; this time, with claws unsheathed. The tips of those sharp knives grazed the surface of her thin face, creating shallow ravines across her cheekbone. Marshall inhaled sharply, squirmed under Inari's embrace. She could feel lust coalescing between her legs, that distinct yearning sensation driving her mad. She needed something more; something violent.

Her cheek had begun to swell now; her tongue danced along her teeth as she begged: “M–more. That can't be all, right?" She scoffed. “Fucking coward. Don't hold back."

Inari smiled; despite his repeated emasculation, he was overcome with joy. Deep down, he was delighted to own such hardy prey; most folks would've tapped out by now. Marshall, however… she was different. Tougher. Amusing. Every impact of his palms, his fists, sent Inari into a tizzy. He yearned to tear the girl apart.

The beast licked his lips, then gave in. With a sigh, Inari lowered himself over Marshall's shoulder; his hot breath cascaded over her flesh there, a thin spool of drool leaking from his manic lips. Desperately, Inari attempted to resist the urge to chomp; Marshall simply giggled.

“Are you just gonna look?" Marshall teased. “What, am I not succulent enough for you? Not your favorite cut of meat?" She thrust her shoulder forward, flashed a sly smile, and taunted: “Stop being such a loser and bite me. Bite. me."

Inari obliged; harshly, bloodily, feral, he obliged. His teeth sank beneath Marshall's bare shoulder with a soft squelch, those sharp incisors tearing through her flesh like butter. And there they anchored, catching between her tendons, as warm metallic ichor flowed from the little puncture wounds. It flowed around his teeth, pooled, and was greedily lapped by Inari's vulpine tongue.

“Fuck!" Marshal writhed against Inari's ironclad embrace, but failed to make any headway; it's not like she wished to escape, anyhow. No, no – her struggle was an expression of instinct, the primal fear of being hunted. Marshall battered her balled fists against Inari's broad back, attempted to tear his muscled arms off of her; but she failed.

Of course, Inari understood that prey could only fight for so long; eventually, even the most energetic animal must fall flaccid, their labored breathing and beating heart the only indication of their life. Marshall was no different. Her petty quips gradually melted into the petty whines of a neck-bitten field mouse.

In the back of his mind, Inari remained aware of his precarious appetite. One inch deeper and he would strike the brachial artery; one poke, and Marshall would bleed out. However, Inari could hardly rip himself away; Marshall's blood tasted too good, her cries too pathetic. He needed her. Badly.

The pain nearly made Marshall pass out; her head became light, her heart a ticking timebomb in her chest. Acknowledging her condition, she could only think of one response:

“Kiss me," she begged. Her voice was uncharacteristically breathy, needy. In any other circumstance, she would never degrade herself so fully; but, if she wished to preserve her life, she had no choice.

Those words echoed in Inari's twitching white ears; and, reluctantly, he thus removed himself from her crimson-coated shoulder. He was enticed by something new now – his wife's soft, pink lips. Blood dripped from his lower jaw, appearing like a messy goatee along his mouth. Through clenched teeth, he growled: “Mine."

For just a moment, his maw hovered before Marshall's terrified mien – that bratty exterior had melted away, laying Marshall bare. Ten neat puncture wounds lined her shoulder, that bloody semi-circle disappearing behind the curve of her clavicle. Marshall trembled.

Marshall asked, “Do you mean it?" Like an embarrassed schoolgirl, she cracked a nervous grin. “Am I yours?"

Inari, however, was not one for words. Instead, he lunged forward and affixed his mouth to Marshall's. A torrent of Marshall's blood thus flowed into her mouth, like a dam breaking, as Inari forced himself inside.

Near-immediately, Inari was struck with the desire to snuff her out; he yearned to plug her esophagus with his thick tongue, to hold down her squirming limbs as she slowly ran out of oxygen. No one could prevent him from doing so, after all. He could do anything he wanted. Anything.

First, he took Marshall's thin, trembling wrists in his paws, then held them above her head; it only took one to hold them there. With the other paw, he tugged harshly on Marshall's hair – with every little tug, he could hear the faint snapping of her follicles. Marshall whined.

The words “Fuck you" coalesced on Marshall's lips, but they couldn't escape. Inari's mouth had already plugged hers, his long vulpine tongue licking along every curve of her insides. First along her tongue, then her teeth, then her palate, all the way down to her throat. His hot breath permeated her flesh and warmed her; she felt as if she were floating, every twitch of his tongue causing her to convulse and moan.

Marshall dared open her eyes, only to be met with Inari's intense stare. His slitted gaze, blazing red, bored holes into the poor girl's skull; unbeknownst to her, Inari was simply waiting. Waiting for Marshall to run out of oxygen. Already, Marshall could feel her arms and legs going limp, her frantic gasps slowing. Filled with Inari's warmth, she could hardly imagine a better way to asphyxiate.

Then, nothing. For a moment, Marshall faded into a complete unconsciousness; a welcome reprieve from her aching body.

The moment, however, was fleeting. She was once again awoken by a tug of her hair, that shot of pain trickling from her scalp down onto her neck. Globs of spittle flew from her mouth before she even realized she was coughing. Inari had jerked her head upward, holding her upright by her mane.

Inari watched curiously, waiting for Marshall to clear her throat on her own. Dissatisfied by her continuous coughing, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He wrenched his paw backward, then plunged it unceremoniously into Marshall's gut. Marshall was thus flung backwards, upheld only by Inari's grip on her hair. She let loose a muddled gasp, a cry; and then, she resumed coughing.

Inari was unsatisfied. Marshall hadn't suffered enough; no, not nearly enough. Casually, he then raised his fist once more, and plummeted it like a comet against Marshall's awaiting gut. Once more, Marshall attempted to double over in pain; and, just as expected, the jolt freed up the spittle clogging her throat. It flew out and landed on Inari's lap. Bile rose in her throat. Tears rolled uncontrollably from her eyes, smudging her mascara. Messy black semi-circles now coalesced under her eyes, streamed down her face. She sniffled.

“Th–thanks," Marshall pouted. Through quiet sobs, she managed to muster a stoic mien. Her back jumped with every little gasp. “Thanks for, um, helping me not choke. Idiot."

Inari eyed Marshall curiously; even after all that abuse, even as she was painfully suspended by her ponytail, she remained prideful. Frankly, Inari was impressed. For a moment, he simply stared at her; even in his enraged, feral state, he felt such intense love for her. She was perfect.

Noticing Inari's softening expression, Marshall pounced at the opportunity to tease. She raised a messy, black-stained eyebrow and spat: “What? Getting sentimental?" Another cough, another yelp as her head jerked against Inari's hold. “Don't be such a pussy, Inari. Are you r–really gonna stop just because you're catching feelings?" She smiled. “Because, if so… wow, you'd make a pathetic predator."

Marshall knew just how to choose her words. In an instant, Inari was once again incensed, that feral feeling urging him forward. In a flash, he had landed another sucker punch on Marshall's stomach; spittle flew from her lips, vomit just barely eclipsing her esophagus. Inari then threw Marshall downward, slamming her head against the couch cushion, and rested his clawed paws against her chest. Marshall shivered in anticipation.

And then, without thinking, Inari ripped Marshall's top wide open. Taking one half in each hand, he clove the fabric in two, throwing each half to either side. He faced nearly no resistance. Marshall simply laid there, her head spinning, her stomach churning, as she awaited her next punishment.

Marshall didn't have to wait long. In an instant, Inari had begun clawing at her chest. As if bringing down an executioner's ax, each paw made a wide arc downward, landing squarely between Marshall's breasts. He dug bloody ravines there – deep, gushing – one way, then the other, as if he were scoring meat to be cooked. Marshall screamed in pain, flecks of her blood flung onto the couch, dripping onto the floor, coating Inari's palms. The sight made him ravenous.

Another slash, and then another – on her stomach this time. Her once eggplant-purple bruises bloomed outward as blunt force turned sharp. Loud, mindless shrieks flew past her lips as her mind broke under the pressure of Inari's claws. She wanted to fight back, to tease him, anything – but she was far beyond that point now. Strength fled her in droves. Marshall was no longer the aggressor; she was the victim.

Seemingly satisfied, Inari then withdrew – any more scratches and Marshall would lose too much blood. Instead, he then refocused his efforts. Just as he did with Marshall's blouse, he ripped her skirt in twain. And upon ripping them open, Inari was surprised to see how wet Marshall was.

In truth, the girl was positively down bad for pain. In the face of such mindless brutality, such utter domination, her loins churned. Lust leaked freely from her little slit and coated her panties entirely; a droplet of precum dripped down her thigh, wiggling with every tremble of her overstimulated body.

With uncharacteristic care, Inari thus pulled her panties down, observing eagerly as a tendril of lust stretched between her pussy and the cotton. Marshall's wet, pink cunt contrasted nicely against her upper half, utterly caked in blood. The sight made Inari inexplicably aroused; it was as if he were about to conquer the last unruined part of her.

The scent of her cunt then wafted upward, tickling the beast's nostrils, urging him forward. With bated breath, he thus lowered his maw over the immobile girl's slit, pressing his snout flush against her clit. Marshall whimpered. She shifted the slightest bit.

Inari's hands then instinctively rose, wrapping themselves around Marshall's plush thighs, and held the girl still. A deep growl resounded through Marshall's stomach, her womb, protruding through bared fangs.

Inari's tongue then lolled from within his mouth, trailed lazily along Marshall's shivering thigh. Helplessly, she watched as that long, moist, prehensile tongue snaked its way along her loins. It gently caressed the edges of her pussy, slithering along its outsides, before gently prodding Marshall's entrance. She gasped.

In a weak voice, she pleaded: “I–Inari. Inari, please… mmph… fill me." A small gasp, and then: “Fuck me. Fuck me, please."

However, Inari ignored Marshall's pleading. His prey's cries appeared muffled, distant; they didn't so much as register within Inari's mind. Instead, he focused solely on Marshall's dripping sex. He groaned as his tongue first lapped at Marshall's lust, savoring that sticky, musky scent. Marshall was positively soaking – every impact, every scratch, had made her absolutely insatiable.

In a fit of excitement, Marshall attempted to clamp her legs shut; but Inari simply pried them open, delving himself further inside the poor girl. His vulpine nose exhaled hot breath onto her abdomen as he then went to work on her clit, licking along its sensitive periphery, gorging himself on her little yelps, her exhausted moans.

Marshall's head positively swam; she was experiencing acute blood loss now. Her limbs felt like they were made of lead, her lungs eagerly huffing, her head filled with cotton. Her tongue danced along her teeth like piano keys, unable to form a cohesive sentence. The sensation of Inari's wide, flat tongue was too much. It made her shiver, squirm, and gasp. She had never been so fully dominated; as if her ego had been pierced with a needle, she could feel all self-assuredness leaking from her. She was hardly a person anymore; she was a toy.

Against her will, she could feel her hips gyrating against Inari's face. Her plump ass bounced against the couch cushion, desperate for Inari's touch. Every second spent away from his warm mouth was torture; she perpetually danced on the edge of orgasm, entranced by the writhing of his appendage, addicted to his bestial licks and growls.

Seemingly satisfied, Inari then tore himself from Marshall's sex, licking his lips in the stuffy apartment air. A thin glaze of saliva, precum, and blood coated his mouth, swept deftly from his peach-fuzz face by his strong, pink tongue. He smiled.

In that moment, Marshall was struck by a primordial fear. There she laid, helpless, nude, before a beast whose strength vastly outmeasured hers; moreover, Inari's ravenous gaze betrayed his impatience. The fox had grown restless; each scratch, bite, and lick was mere foreplay. He wanted something different now; something more.

Marshall's gaze thus meandered downard, landing squarely upon Inari's groin. His once-small package had grown; prominent veins now crept along its shaft, pumped blood toward his red, engorged glans. A little bead of precum coalesced upon Inari's tip, dripping along the beast's length, rolling with every twitch of his cock. Marshall's breath caught in her throat.

“Please," she begged. Weakly, meekly, she spread her legs, revealing her sopping wet cunt. Her chest heaved, blood clotting darkly along those scratch marks, as she said: “Breed me, you dumb mutt." A small wiggle of her ass, and then: “C'mon. You want me, don't you? Come and take me."

Inari didn't think twice. In a flash, his hand had darted toward Marshall's neck, hooked around her throat, and yanked her upward. Marshall hung there, suspended by his ironclad grip, her eyes affixed on his; she sputtered and coughed in surprise, lost in those slitted amber eyes.

With a grunt, Inari then pushed himself gently against Marshall's entrance. A sharp inhale passed his lips; and slowly, steadily, he pushed himself inside. Marshall's warmth welcomed him readily; her warm, gummy insides massaged his length, milking his eager glans, leaking with lust. For once, Inari smiled.

Marshall went slack as Inari held her up, her entire body ceasing its petty rebellion. A distinct bulge burgeoned upon Marshall's stomach as Inari shoved himself snugly within. It hurt.

“W–wait," Marshall begged. Her voice was dry, crackling. “Inari, wait. It's too big. Please…"

Inari, however, was enraptured. That helpless expression on Marshall's face made him squirm with glee. Her lower jaw was bruising now, turning a beautiful shade of aubergine. The sight made him thrust himself forward, burying himself up to the hilt in Marshall's sex. Her warmth massaged his cock in just the right way; it drove him wild.

“S–stop!" Marshall yelled. With weak fists, she banged herself against the beast's barrel chest, attempted to pull his hands from her neck. Every effort simply egged Inari on. He growled, gripping Marshall's neck tighter, and then lowered his face to Marshall's. Like a dog in heat, his long tongue lolled from his sharp teeth, then buried itself within Marshall's mouth once more. Marshall attempted to scream, to moan, but was totally muffled. Every futile effort only made Inari fight harder; and so, she gave in. Her arms fell limply to her sides. Her eyes rolled back. Marshall's willpower had been destroyed.

Inari, however, wasn't done. With every pump of his hips, he could feel an orgasm gestating within the near-comatose girl; her pussy quivered with every little rub of her clit, those walls pulling every drop of lust toward her womb. The thought of fucking such a broken, helpless girl made Inari feral.

His thrusting became feverish, harsh. With every slap of his thighs, he was afraid he'd bruise the poor girl's ass; he'd already pulled out a chunk of her hair, anyhow. But somehow, Inari thought she looked most beautiful when she was helpless like this. When she was totally defeated.

And so the pair's tongues danced, Inari's cock flaring in rhythm with his beating heart against Marshall's quivering insides. A tingling feeling coalesced within his stomach, spread to his churning balls, and rested within his cock. He could feel his breaths racing, his shoulders arched forward; he was about to cum.

And, with a mighty wail, Inari then plunged himself inside Marshall's pussy one final time. Simultaneously, he shoved his tongue deeply into Marshall's throat. Penetrated from both ends, the poor girl could hardly think; she could only perceive the slickness of his saliva, the warmth of his cum, as it burst in waves from her eager cunt. Inari whimpered.

That moment seemed to last forever; that beautiful, irreplaceable moment. Inari's breaths gradually slowed as he emptied the last of his seed into Marshall's sex. His shoulders relaxed, his grip loosened.

And, as if Inari's body were shutting down, he felt his reflexes grow stiff. Each successive twitch of his once-thrusting hips heralded a return to sanity. His eyelids drooped. His skeleton crunched. His claws and teeth retracted beneath his skin. Rattling within his thick skull, he could feel his irises contort back to their original form.

For just a moment, Inari was blinded. Deafened, too. His flesh contorted; a cry rang from his throat as his vocal cords shifted. And in a kaleidoscope of color and shape, his senses gradually returned. To his side, that same audience cheered through shoddy television speakers. Beside them, the Crimson Crusader upheld a title belt. Inari thought that the display was pathetic.

A gasp then fell from Inari's parched lips. He wiped his sweat-covered forehead, glanced downward at his handiwork: Marshall, spread eagle, bruised and bloodied. Inari's cock had just slipped out; his cum gushed from her battered cunt in tiny waves. His heart nearly jumped from his chest.

“M–Marshall!" Inari cried. As gently as he could, he then gripped the girl's shoulders, touched along her cheekbones. Panic made his hands shake. “Marshall. Marshall, can you hear me?" He gulped, licked dried blood from his chapped lips. “I'm sorry. Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

Marshall, however, did not seem worried by her obvious wounds. With a trembling hand, she reached toward the heavens – up, up, working along Inari's chest, until her palm cupped the boy's grimaced face. And, in a seldom-heard show of gratitude, she whispered: “Thank you."

Inari raised an eyebrow. “What?"

“Thank you," Marshall repeated. With a little sigh, she shifted herself against the bloodstained sofa. Little trickles of crimson dribbled from her shallow wounds. She then donned a sly grin and said: “Thank you… for everything tonight."

A screwed expression washed across Inari's face. He replied: “What? No, no… Marshall, you should be afraid of me." He then dismounted Marshall, motioned around at the mess he had made. Every little wound on Marshall's body, a torn couch, even the semen dripping onto their rug… it was all his fault. A leaden ball formed in his stomach. He blathered: “I mean, Marshall… you're torn to ribbons. I'm so sorry."

Even in her weakened state, Marshall found the energy to roll her eyes. “You fucking idiot," she croaked. “I asked for it." She then patted the space next to her on the couch, ordered: “Now come here and provide some aftercare, huh? I could really use it."

A deep breath in, then out. Attempting to calm himself, Inari replied: “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'll be right back." And on sore legs, he trudged himself over to the bathroom. He thus nabbed a fluffy towel, disinfectant, and a roll of bandages; then, he ran the towel under some warm water. Supplies in-hand, Inari then meandered back to the living room. Once more, he was greeted by television crackle. A butter commercial was airing.

Gently, Inari then helped Marshall into a sitting position. Fitting himself snugly against her side, he then wiped the girl clean – first her breasts, then her abdomen, all the way down to her legs. Layers of caked blood, saliva, and lust came peeling off in sloughs. Marshall giggled.

“This feels nice. Very intimate," she teased. A sharp inhale, and then: “You really got me good, love."

Inari shook his head and replied: “Yeah, I… I can't control myself when I get like that. I just go feral." He frowned. His towel glided against Marshall's soft skin. “Again, I'm really sorry. This was… a lot. You'll probably be out of commission for a few days." He then hurriedly added: “B–but I can take care of you."

Marshall simply scoffed, shot a glance at her fox-bitten shoulder. She then turned to Inari and teased: “Would you stop apologizing already? You sound like a loser." A sigh, and then: “I love you, Inari. And… thank you for offering to take care of me. Just don't be so down on yourself." An earnest smile. “Keep being yourself, Inari. And if that means you're a dumbass werefox sometimes, I really don't mind. Just be genuine. That's all I need. I'm serious."

Struck by Marshall's bluntness, Inari replied: “Th–thank you?" He then chuckled, added: “I love you, too."

The pair then shared a quick peck, followed by the unspooling of bandages. With great care, Inari cut each strip to size, fitted them around the girl's tummy and legs. The antiseptic softly spurted onto the fabric, then delicately curled around Marshall's tender flesh. Marshall winced, her eyes now fixated on the television.

“I'm glad we spent tonight together," she said. Inari snipped away at some bandages beside her, pulling the strip tight. “Not only did you fuck me stupid, but we got to avoid the worst WWE match ever." She pointed a finger at the television and spat: “Look. Look, look. The camerawork is shoddy."

Inari laughed and replied, “Don't judge this show too harshly."

“This dialogue is bullshit, too."

“Blame their writers," Inari quipped. He then snuck a glance upwards at Marshall's scrunched-up face. Reverential, he smiled at the thought of spending his life with her. He loved Marshall's smile; he loved her laugh, and her eyes, and her voice. He loved all of her.

Noticing Inari's stare, Marshall asked: “What?"

“Nothing," Inari replied. He patted a bandage down and said: “I just think you're beautiful. That's all."